FISHING LURES • by G. L. Dearman

Fishing lures attract more fishermen than they do fish. Tackle shops sell lures in every color from “Fire Tiger” to “Nuclear Watermelon.” It’s nonsense — you don’t need that stuff to catch fish. You can use the bowl of an old teaspoon. Or, if you’re really old-fashioned, a worm. But fishermen can’t resist those fancy colors. Only one thing will draw in a fisherman faster than a lure in a color he hasn’t got: a story about a secret fishing spot full of big fish.

Trust me, I know how to lure in a fisherman.

Lance’s tackle box must’ve had a lure in every color they make. He was in the bow seat of my jon boat, a flashlight in his teeth, fumbling through junk he didn’t need, trying to find something he did.

“Why’d you bring all that stuff?” I asked. “Lures don’t catch catfish.”

I keep a paddle stowed on the boat in case the outboard conks out. I pulled it out and slapped the blade down onto the surface of the water.

Lance jumped in his seat. “What the —”

The frogs went quiet. I slapped the water a few more times. “Catfish come to the sound,” I said. “They think it’s a gator feeding, and hope they’ll get the scraps.”

“Warn me next time. You got me all wet.”

I switched on the spotlight and shined it around us. Everywhere it touched, pairs of red eyes glowed back at us.

“Damn,” said Lance. “That’s a lot of gators.”

The eyes all drifted toward us.

“Gators all come check out what one of their buddies catches. Don’t worry.” I patted the shotgun next to me. “There’s no problem double-ought can’t solve.”

His reel buzzed.

“You got one,” I said.

He yanked back on his rod and reeled in. The catfish breached the surface with a splash, and it looked like Lance was going to get it to the boat. Then, the surface exploded. Lance’s broken line hung limp from his rod. The catfish was gone. Trapped on a hook and thrashing around, it was easy prey for the gator that stole it.

“Hate to lose one like that,” I said.

“We’ll never land anything,” he said. “These gators will take anything we hook.”

“Yeah. Looks like anything struggling in the water will get torn to pieces.”

“Let’s get out of here.” He started to pack up his gear.

“By the way,” I said, “I have your watch, if you want it back.”

“My watch? Where did you find that?”

“Under Betty’s pillow,” I said. I picked up my shotgun.

G. L. Dearmanspent two decades working in science labs before making a daring midnight escape. Now, he makes up brazen but entertaining lies for a living. He resides in rural North Florida.